


So The Lines Are Lost

by geckoholic



Series: author's favorites [17]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abduction, Aftermath of Torture, Electric Burns, Flogging, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Touching, Threatened Sexual Violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:38:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4825922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Any other day, Clint would have been able to take him out in fifteen seconds flat, he's pretty sure, but not when he's drunk to the gills and gravity keeps slipping from his command. He does his level best. It's not enough.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	So The Lines Are Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. Second entry for prompt tennis with tielan, and... you guys. The prompt was _there are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man_ , and that sort of took a really dark turn. Like, _really_ dark. I haven't written anything this brutal in ages, and I'm not sure where it crawled out from now, but, ah well, here we are. 
> 
> More info on exactly what causes the rape/non-con tag in the end notes, so y'all know what to expect if you need or want to. :)
> 
> Beta-read by andibeth82. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Drawn Out" by Dishwalla.

“Super easy,” Kev says, leaning back on the bench opposite the newly opened computer store. He grins. “Easiest break we ever made.” 

Given how he says that every time, it doesn't carry much weight anymore. Kevin Hicks is the kinda guy who thinks himself invincible, seems convinced Fortuna herself pissed down on him from heaven the day he was born and blessed him. He's also not the sharpest tool in the drawer. Clint is rather sure there must be a causal relationship between the two. But he _is_ damn good at what he does, and for the last little while his ideas have proven to be Clint's best bet at coming by some cash. Problem is, all their breaks have been small hardware stores, newspaper kiosks, that sort of thing. Snagging the register and making a run for it, nothing more. The upgrade to a van full of computers worries him. 

“Fine,” Clint agrees anyway, because rent for the shithole he's lucky enough to call home these days is past due again and he only dimly remembers the last time he's had anything deserving to be called a meal. “I'm guessing that means you figured out a way past the security cameras?” 

Kev stretches out and crosses his legs at the ankle. The brief flash of surprise that shadows his face likely means he has not, didn't even realize they were there, which, yeah, not too shocking. “Sure,” he lies without hesitation. “All sorted out.” 

This is going to go south, Clint can feel it, but it's not like he's got other options. He shrugs. “Well, as long as you've got it all sorted out.” 

 

*** 

 

They're halfway through packing boxes into the (also stolen) van when he hears sirens in the distance and knows, just knows, that he's not going to have to be worried about organizing his own food for the next couple of years. It'll be provided by the state. He's nineteen and has already racked up a couple convictions; if you add the worth of their haul this time, there's no way he'll get another slap on the wrist. 

He puts down the box he’s carrying and runs anyway. The cops catch him two blocks away from the store, like in the movies, backed into a corner with the red and blue light illuminating the night by turns. Clint holds up his hands and lets himself be arrested, because really, what else can he do? 

The back of the police car, he finds, isn't empty. They've bagged Kev already, and he's glaring daggers at him for a reason Clint can’t discern. 

“What?” he snarls under his breath, eyes straight ahead; he can see Kev's face just fine in the rear view mirror. 

Kev's expression turns positively murderous. “This is your fault. You told someone. You got us caught.” 

“That's... what the fuck, man?” Clint hisses, a little louder, because seriously, _what the fuck_. “I didn't!” 

Any possible reply gets cut off by a reprimand from the front seat, one of the cops telling them to shut the hell up _or else_ , and on second thought, Clint doesn't need an explanation. Kev has never gotten caught before, and now he did, and that obviously can't be happening due to his own delusions of grandeur. No, it must be someone else's fault, and there's no one else available other than Clint. Which, okay, whatever. They were never going to be buddies for life. Kev being pissed at him is the least of his problems right now. He huffs, shifts so the handcuffs bite into his wrists a little less, and resigns himself to his fate. 

 

***

 

Their trial is a formality: they were caught in the act, fled the scene, don't have any exonerating circumstances. Five years each, or military service of at least the same length. Kev abhors commando structures of any kind, and Clint isn't surprised when he picks jail – he probably thinks it'd be easier. Clint knows his father's stories from his time in prison, multiple stints before he went straight and spent the rest of his miserable life hacking up meat and beating his family into a pulp, and he knows what kinda man it made him. He can do orders; besides, he's a good shot and that's got to be a useful skill in the military. He might even get somewhere, if he applies himself a little. 

Turns out, he gets pretty damn far. Far enough, in any case, to catch the attention of the right people. The day before his court-ordered time is up, a man walks up to him – bald head, eye patch, long leather coat, carefully crafted mysterious demeanor – and offers him a job. 

 

***

 

His first actual mission for SHIELD after training and academy is entirely unglamorous, considering this is an organization that considers itself responsible for world security: monitoring a prisoner transfer in Salt Lake City. Half the team is made up of newbies and first-timers, the other half consists of bored-looking senior agents, and their team leader for the day, he hears, is also still gathering credentials. 

Agent Maria Hill walks into the room with a folder tucked underneath her arm and a completely blank expression, radiating an air of professional detachment. Looks at each of them, one by one, and clears her throat. 

“I know you probably all think this assignment is below you, and that you could do this in your sleep. Maybe you can; you're here because you're the best at what you do.” That gets her everyone's attention, at least. “The woman that will be released into SHIELD's custody tonight has valuable information. There will be other parties, trying to interfere. Do not lose her. I repeat: _Do not lose her._ ”

She proceeds to give each of them their assigned position and explains the setup in broad strokes, closes her file, and walks back out. The nattering starts the moment the door's fallen shut behind her, but Clint doesn't participate. Straight to the point, no bullshit; he sees no reason to cuss her out for being efficient. 

 

*** 

 

The mission goes over without a hitch. Clint spends most of it on a roof overseeing the area, but doesn't have to take a single shot. Afterwards, one of the senior agents takes them all for a drink. Hill doesn't join in. Clint almost doesn't go either, but then again, hey, free booze. Nobody said he'll have to _talk_ to anyone. 

Several shots and a few glasses of whiskey later, he excuses himself to the bathroom, friendly advice from one of his brand new co-workers to aim carefully in there trailing after him – it's a real hit, too, raising a good laugh. He flips them off and stumbles through the swinging doors leading to the rest rooms, quite pleased that he doesn't require the assistance of the walls to stay upright even once. 

Standing over the latrine, legs wide and ready to go, he runs into his past. 

The moment happens in slow motion: Kev sees him, and Clint sees Kev, and they both stare at each other in disbelief. Clint's about to grin, crack a joke, walk out like nothing happened. It's been six years since the computer store. As far as Clint's concerned, things worked out alright. Bygones, right? 

Kev seems to have a different stance on that. He seems to forget all about the business he came in here for, zips right back up, and punches Clint square in the jaw. Any other day, Clint would have been able to take him out in fifteen seconds flat, he's pretty sure, but not when he's drunk to the gills and gravity keeps slipping from his command. He does his level best. It's not enough. 

 

***

 

Clint opens his eyes to darkness and a splitting headache, his lashes brushing against fabric. He's sitting up, arms tied to behind the back of a chair and ankles tied to its legs, so tight the rope bites painfully into his skin even if he doesn't move a muscle. For a brief moment, he wonders why he can feel the sting of it so directly on both his hands _and_ his feet, where his pants went, before his brain gets around to processing all current sensory input and informs him that not only are his pants gone, but the rest of his clothes are as well. The cold metal of the chair against his back, the slight chill of the night air causing goosebumps to spread all over his body; he's naked. He's naked and he's tied up and he's blindfolded, the last memory from before the lights went out is that of a man who's familiar but not friendly, and if he were liable to panic, this is when his heart would start pumping madly. 

Panic never got him anywhere, though, a habit he'd grown out of before the age of ten, so he takes a couple deep breaths, screws his eyes shut even though it won't make a difference, and concentrates on the one useful sense he's got left. He listens closely – there's a low chorus of voices, not in his direct vicinity, probably wafting over from the next room. One of them he knows; it's Kev alright, not like he had any doubt. He'd recognize that shithead anywhere. Clint tests his restraints again, isn't surprised they don't give no matter how much he strains against them; judging from the sting, he only succeeds in working himself bloody. 

Not one to sit around and abide by his fate, he clears his throat and yells out Kev's name, followed by a few choice insults. Unless the guy's mellowed out considerably since the last time they saw each other, which current evidence is pointing against, he won't be able to resist for long. 

The door opens and closes with a creak merely a minute later. Good old Kev, still utterly predictable. 

“Hey man,” Clint says, face angled in the vague direction of where he assumes the other man to stand. “Your manners got even crappier than they used to be, this is no way to treat an old friend.” 

The backhand to the face is expected; the kick to the groin not so much. Clint grunts with the pain that knocks the wind straight out of him, breathes through the initial shock when it doesn't ebb away. Damn motherfucker's got his boot to where it hurts the most, constantly increasing pressure. Short-tempered and ruthless is how Clint remembers Kev, but this level of cruelty is new – or maybe it isn't, and this is just the first time Clint landed himself on the receiving end of it. 

Kev keeps the pressure going until Clint has almost gone numb, before he removes his foot very slowly and reaches around Clint's head to remove the blindfold. His face is a mask of pure, mindless hatred, and yeah, well, okay, maybe now Clint's panicking a _little_ bit. 

“Barton,” he says, spitting the name out like a curse. “Five years in prison, and you have no idea how much of that I spent imagining this very moment.”

Clint pastes on his most deprecating smirk. “Yeah? Well, sorry to burst your bubble there, buddy, but I can't say I missed you as much.” 

“You've never been as funny as you think you are.” Another backhand, and this time Clint tastes blood. “And I'll get that dumb grin off your face soon enough, don't you worry.” 

Clint presses his back against the chair, clenches his fists despite the renewed sting, and juts his chin out. “Bring it on, asshole,” he says, which is just as cliche, but hey, if that's the tone Kev wants to set, Clint can play along. 

But Kev does no such thing, at least not yet. He ties the blindfold back around Clint's head, and Clint hears footsteps, hears how the door opens and closes, leaving him alone in the room once again. 

 

***

 

Nothing else happens for long enough that Clint loses track of time, sitting there in the dark, shivering; it's not necessarily getting colder, but the longer he sits around naked and idle, the more he's feeling the chill. The voices in the next room ebb and swell, his skin crawling every time they seem to get closer. The fear is making this worse; he knows there's more coming, but he doesn't know when or what's going to happen. By the time the door finally creaks again, Clint's imagination has already worked itself ragged, and he involuntarily flinches away when the blindfold's taken off again. 

Kev stands before him, feet wide, unmitigated excitement painted all over his face. Clint knew the guy was a sick little shit, but man, this is something else. “Wanna have some fun?” 

Clint doesn't dignify that with a reply. Kev doesn't seem to care. He leans in, running a hand down from Clint's belly button, stopping just above the base of his cock for effect, then ever so slowly inches lower. Clint screws his eyes shut as cold hands cup him and squeeze, his heart jack-rabbiting, his breath coming in desperate pants that make his chest feel like it's been put into a vice. He's frozen, doesn't dare move until Kev finally, slowly moves away, and then gulps in air like a fish on dry land. This can't be happening; Kev's always been leering at every girl in sight, homophobic to the bone and not ashamed of expressing it whenever the opportunity presents himself. He doesn't swing that way. But Clint's trained to withstand torture, and the part of his brain that's still holding on to rational thought knows attraction's not what this is about – it's about power, about breaking someone down with every tool at hand. 

That knowledge doesn't do much to keep the terror at bay, though, especially since Kev is still grinning like he's having the time of his life. 

He waits for Clint to halfway get his bearings again, and only then does he start unbuckling his belt. Sour, desperate fear pools in the pit of Clint's stomach, renders him unable to breathe at all, air locked in his throat. It's almost a relief when he sees Kev pull the leather belt out of the loops on his jeans instead of undressing, barks a command for Clint to bend forward but doesn't wait for compliance, roughly pulling him down. The ropes tense, bite harder into his wrists, and the muscles in his arms protest at the strain. There still isn't much room, and the first strike catches the chair, not Clint, but the second doesn't miss its target, comes down hard on his back. The pain isn't so bad at first; it burns and stings, but doesn't really hurt that much until maybe the fifth strike. That's when his skin begins to tear, and soon after he looses count. The world blurs around the edges. Time stretches endlessly, its rhythm dictated by the leather coming down on his back, again and again. He's not aware of much else anymore when it finally stops, Kev stepping around him, pushing him back against the chair and tightening his restraints before he leaves the room. 

 

***

 

For the next couple of hours, Clint floats in and out of consciousness. He holds himself so his upper body hovers in midair, the pressure on his wrists and arms worth keeping his back away from the chair. He passes out, jolts awake when he pulls at the wounds; rinse and repeat. While he's awake, he's hyper aware of every noise around him: the ever present voices in the next room, footsteps in the hallway, faint and faraway traffic noises outside. When the door creaks open for the third time, Clint feels a tremor run through his body, fear surging. He blinks his eyes open, and immediately wishes he hadn't. 

Kev's carrying what looks like an old car battery, wires attached to both contacts. He sets it down in front of the chair, gripping Clint's chin, making extra sure he gets a good long look at it. He brings the wires together, expression positively gleeful at the electric spark that produces. Clint, despite being atheist, considers starting to call for any deity that might be willing to listen. He wrenches free and pushes against the chair in a futile attempt at getting away, succeeds only in making his back sing out in pain.

The first touch of the wires on his skin of his arm isn't even that bad, the reaction delayed by a few precious seconds. It starts with a tingle, setting the hairs on his forearm on end, and only then explodes into a furious ball of anguish that begins at the place of contact with the wires and shoots up his arm like someone injected liquid fire into his veins. He's barely managed to process that when Kev moves on to the other arm, repeating the process, then leads the wires down his chest. His eyes burn with tears he refuses to shed, stupid as it might be; it's not like he's got much dignity left to lose. 

“Ready to beg yet?” Kev asks, which is stupid too. 

Even if he'd still possess the ability to form words, and his pride would let him say them, he'd know it'd be futile. There's no stopping this. Begging for anything – mercy, a reprieve, the pain to stop – would only make this sweeter for Kev, and Clint'd rather die in here than give him the satisfaction. 

Kev shrugs at the lack of a reply and holds the wires up again, making them spark and crackle, then forcefully spreads Clint's legs a little wider. He's never going to forget the mad, blissed out look on his former friend's face as he lets them hover between his thighs for a moment, and there's no doubt as to what's going to happen next. He closes his eyes and inhales, both to steel himself and to will his mind and body to shut down, to spare him from having to feel this. 

Because his own mind has never been on his side, it doesn't let Clint black out until after Kev held the wires to his genitals for several seconds, the excruciating agony of it literally burned into his memory forever, his own screams providing the soundtrack. 

 

*** 

 

The first thing that worms its way into his consciousness when he startles awake again is the constant, low beeping of a heart monitor. He's flat on his stomach, arms tucked in, a blanket wrapped tightly around his torso, clearly the hospital kind, cheap and scratchy. Even so, he finds himself on the verge of hyperventilating the very instant he opens his eyes, his brain reluctant to go out of panic mode and believe that he might actually be safe, pulse racing, breathing erratic, one arm flailing out despite the flare of pain that runs through his entire system at the movement. 

A hand gently curls around his, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. 

“Shh, calm down,” a female voice says, tone so low and soothing and plain _different_ that he only belatedly recognizes her as Hill. “Take a deep breath. It's over, you're safe. No one's going to hurt you, I promise.” 

He clears his throat; it's dry as sandpaper and sort of aches, and he wonders how long he's been out. He forces a smile and croaks, “Must be real bad if they send _you_ for bedside vigil.” 

“I volunteered. Don't you dare tell anyone.” Hill frowns, but doesn't let go of his hand. “They got away, for now, but don't worry. We'll find him sooner or later, and then we'll make him pay.” 

 

***

 

They don't find him. The rest of Hill's team goes through all of Salt Lake City with a fine comb, but he's gone. Being a small time thug works in his favor; no one pays attention, no one cares to remember him, and he doesn't surface again for years. The search fizzles out. Clint stops looking over his shoulder, convinces himself that Kev merely got lucky, and that he won't get lucky enough again to come back and finish the job. 

For everyone but two people, Kevin Hicks becomes a ghost story, a cautionary tale, told to newbies over a beer at their first after-work-party: _have you heard about what happened to Barton when he started out, what, no, then listen up_. Clint gets used to that too, and it's how Natasha finds out what happened as well. 

After weeks of nagging to get her to go out with the team post-mission, she finally relents when they get back from particularly rough deal in Bogota; they're both hurting in places neither of them was aware _could_ hurt quite like that, pumped full of enough painkillers that alcohol won't be an option, but that doesn't matter. He kinda suspects she might just be tired, agrees to shut him up, and he feels a little bit bad, though not enough to give in right back and suggest they just go home and get some sleep. 

Roundabout twenty minutes in, some asshole plops down on the stool next to her, takes a moment to leer down her shirt before he remembers she's got a face too, and nods his head at Clint. “Did he tell you yet what happened the first time _he_ decided to mingle?” 

He hadn't, and now he won't get the chance to do it himself. Masochist that he is, he listens to the animated retelling of his own personal nightmare, watches her eyes grow huge, turns away when she glances to him for confirmation. He's glad she knows, actually; he didn't want her to find out like this. 

“You were taken while you were out for drinks with your team,” she points out when the tale is told and the poet has moved on to more willing prey, and he should've known she'd pick up on that. “Most people wouldn't run back into that kind of scenario any chance they get.” 

“Most people are smarter than me, apparently,” he says, and proceeds to order them both a round of tequila against the expressed advice of SHIELD's medical staff. 

 

***

 

Two days later, he walks up to her desk and throws a file onto it. She leans back in her chair and sighs. “I'm not doing your paperwork. I told you. I'm not your secretary.” 

“Read,” he says, and she must hear something in the tone of his voice that tells her this is serious, he's not playing games, not here to crack a joke or banter. She picks up the file, and because it's _Natasha_ she doesn't show any visible reaction while she reads through the reports, sorts through the photos. When she's done, she sets it down, shoves it back at him, and waits. 

Clint takes the file from her, spins it around in his hands. “He doesn't get to change me. If I want to go out with the very bunch of people who failed to save my ass the first time, every chance I get, then that's my decision. If I'd crawl into a hole whenever something reminds me of that night, or what happened when he had me, I couldn't do this job. So I go. Each and every time, I go.” 

She doesn't reply anything to that either, but from there on in, so does she. 

 

***

 

Natasha and him have been back from chasing a drug lord through half of South America for all but forty-eight hours when Hill personally calls them in for another debrief. The pace isn't uncommon – they're too good to be able to rake up a lot of downtime – but that she's doing it herself, well, such a thing hasn't happened in awhile. 

She sits them down and unceremoniously pulls up the file, puts an image of a group of rank, bearded men on full screen. “These guys belong to a group of weapons dealers, originally from Eastern Germany but currently operating in Prague. We'll send you in to pose as buyers. The trail's already been laid. From there on in you'll be on your own, kill or capture as to your own discretion. You know the drill.” 

Clint glances at Natasha, who shakes her head to indicate she doesn't get it either. Sure, it's not like there's such a thing as an easy job in their line of work, but this seems a few notches below Hill's usual responsibilities. Her days as a simple handler are long gone. 

He raises his hand, and she rolls her eyes. “You've got a question, Barton? Then go ahead and ask, this isn't third grade.”

“I wouldn't remember,” he says. “Been a few years since you briefed me, and I'm kinda curious why you're doing it now.”

“That's need to know,” she says, glaring at him. “You've got a job to do, shouldn't matter who hands out the assignment.” Another glare, this one extending to both of them. “Mission details will be in your inboxes shortly. That's it, dismissed.” 

They get up and turn to leave, shrugging at each other, but Hill stops him with a hand on his arm as he trails out of the room after Natasha. “Wait a second.” 

“What?” He does wait, stares at her while she visibly composes herself; not a sight he's used to on Maria Hill. It's blink and you'll miss it, then she nods to herself, expression as closed off and unreadable as ever. 

“I've got a present for you,” she says, shoving a blurry photo at him, most likely a still from a surveillance camera. One glance is all he needs to identify the guy; it's been more than a decade, but Kev's face still sends cold terror down his spine. “He's the group leader's body guard. I will later deny I told you this, or that I even recognized him in the first place, and I'll call you a dirty liar if you tell anyone otherwise but... Well, if you want to get some closure, I'll have your back.” 

“Why?” Clint asks, apparently reduced to one-word-inquiries in this conversation.

She huffs, looks away. “Did I ever tell you I was heading the team that found you? You vanished on my watch and I found you and you were... No one who's capable of treating another human being like that _for fun_ has the right to walk free.” 

He takes the photo without looking at it again, pockets it, and nods a quiet _thank you_ at her. 

 

***

 

Natasha manages to resist asking the obvious question for nearly fifteen minutes. They retreat back to her quarters and she busies herself with stuffing some of the things she only just unpacked back into her bag. He could just tell her, but that's somehow much harder than it sounds. 

Even so, he's glad when she finally gives up pretending, plops down on the bed next to him, gives him a nudge, and studies his face like she could read the answer on there if only she tried hard enough. 

“So what was that about?” she asks, voice gentle; even though his expression apparently didn't provide an answer, it must have clued her in to his state of mind. “Hill?”

He reaches into pocket for the photo and holds it up. “She gave me this.” 

Natasha takes the photo and squints at it. Of course she doesn't recognize him immediately; she never met Kev, only ever saw him on pictures in the file that weren't of much better quality than this one. She knows how to put two and two together, though, and even if it takes her a moment, she does figure it out. “Is that...?” 

“Yep,” he says, eyes following her hand as she lays the photo on the night stand. “That's him.” 

She turns back around. Her fingers wander underneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt. She runs them over what scar tissue she can reach, the very edge of it on his lower back, and he shivers. “Are you okay?” 

It's not the first time someone’s touched him there, and it never bothered him. Hell, most days he forgets the scars are there, startles himself when he spots them in the mirror after he showered or pulled a muscle wrong, his skin tightening in a bad place. But right now, her touch makes them tingle, almost burn, and he wrenches away. Her face falls. 

“I will be,” he says. Natasha removes her fingers and smooths down the hem of the shirt; she does move in closer again, though, puts her head on his shoulder. “Once I figured out what I'm going to do.” 

 

***

 

Out of all the places they're sent to on the regular, Prague is one of his favorites. He loves the old cities in general, pregnant with much more history than he'd be able to find anywhere in the US, centuries piled onto each other like the grain in a tree. This time, though, he can't appreciate it much. The mission is simple enough, the kind of thing they've done what seems like a hundred times by now: dress up, play pretend, monitor the situation until the opportunity for a strike presents itself. His head isn't in it; Kev's face swims to the forefront of his mind every time he closes his eyes. 

Clint's got a plan. Natasha's in on it. He's still not okay. 

The meeting SHIELD intelligence set up takes place in an old restaurant; none of the big names, but not a dive bar either, small and intimate, one room with a bar. He spots Kev just as soon as they step through the door, and that, finally, gives him focus. Getting payback is no longer a vague possibility, it's happening, right around the corner. He's not a greenhorn agent with no clue what he's doing anymore, like the last time. If this were any other mission, he wouldn't have a fissure of doubt about whether or not they can pull this off. 

Natasha takes care of the introductions while he hangs back, to give off the impression that he's here merely for protection; the lady doing business, and her backup-slash-bodyguard. That bubble, of course, is going to burst as soon as Kev recognizes him. They're banking on that, actually. He's supposed to make a mess of the mission, providing deniability for them and Hill both. It takes longer than expected, but as they all sit down and Natasha opens the suitcase with the money for the transaction, Kev's eyes roam and meet Clint's. He pulls his gun immediately. 

“SHIELD!” he yells, all heads turning in his direction. “Fuck, I know this guy. He's SHIELD. This is a trap!” 

The following kerfuffle is the exact thing they were hoping for, and between him and Natasha it's laughably easy to capture Kev and take him out back, knock him out and drive away. 

 

***

 

The abandoned factory isn't a SHIELD property, it’s off the map, thanks to one of Natasha's old contacts. Another beautiful side effect of coming to a place like this repeatedly; you build connections. They've got Kev tied to a chair – fully clothed, and not only because Clint isn't going to touch _that_ with a ten-foot-pole. There's a difference between payback and revenge, and Clint likes to think he's still got something resembling a moral code. 

He's not a particularly patient person, though, and so, after half an hour of waiting around for Kev to come to, he helps matters along with a bucket of cold water. Kev shakes himself, splutters and curses. He goes still as soon as he catches on to the fact that he's tied up, hands working to test the rope, and the parallel almost takes the legs out from under Clint. He steps back, Natasha filling in, briefly squeezing his hand as she passes him to plant herself in front of the chair in his stead, arms crossed in front of her chest. 

“I want names and connections,” she says. “I want everyone who's got ties to your boss, and every interaction you know about.” 

Kev doesn't seem as scared of her as he should be; he's still staring at Clint, not her. “I've wanted that asshole dead ever since I turned twenty-five. We don't all get what we want.” 

Clint looks up, holding his eyes. Walks straight up to him, gun in gloved hands, and raises it to Kev's temple. “If a lady asks you for something, you better give it to her. Jeez, were you raised in a barn?” 

Seeing the fear spread over Kev's face, finally, isn't at all satisfying. He squares his jaw, shakes his head, and yanks at his restraints. “You can't kill me. You're government. There's rules for you.” 

“Wanna bet your life on that?” Clint asks, pressing the muzzle of the gun closer to Kev's head, with enough force that he has to cower to the side. “They're calling it _assassin_ for a reason.” 

At that, Kev's head whips upwards. He's breathing hard now, scared enough that it has him at the verge of hyperventilating. “Assassin? That's what you are?” 

“Among other things,” Clint says, shrugging, routine taking over. He's done this countless times in the last ten years. This is his game; their game. Who's in the hot seat this time around is beginning to matter less and less. “It's a go-where-you're-needed, do-as-you're-told kinda situation, really. We're multitasking.” 

He recognizes the moment when Kev realizes that he might not get out of here alive. That's always a tipping point; some give in. Others get reckless, gamble, stake everything they have left on one desperate last attempt. Somehow, he suspects Kev's going to be the latter kind. 

“Fuck you. I'm not telling you jack.” Sure enough, Kev thrashes against his ropes, spits at both their feet, and looks more surprised than either of them when he manages to wrench one hand free, the rope falling to the floor. 

He catches himself quickly and grins, cocksure, bending to the other side to untie himself completely. Natasha, who's been fading quietly in the background as Clint took back over, takes a step in their direction, but Clint holds up a hand. He parries as Kev comes at him, manages to switch them, get in a right hook that has Kev's nose crooked and bleeding. The next hit gets him in the solar plexus, knocks the air straight out of his lungs, and he lets go of the gun; it clatters to the ground, and for one strangely comical moment, they both stare at it. Kev charges first, and Clint's finds himself in the reverse of their earlier positions, gun to _his_ head. He closes his eyes when he sees Kev pull the trigger out of the corner of his eye, and grins. 

The gun merely clicks, the barrel empty. Kev hits the trigger again, with the same result, and Clint decides to put him out of his misery. He steps between Kev's feet and jams an elbow between his ribs, tears the gun from him and holds it up.

“This thing?” He pulls an evidence bag from his pockets and drops the gun into it, seals it and hands it to Natasha. “Was used to kill a minister of some sort last week. Not top notch, but important enough to make the right people very interested in a quick and unforgiving trial. And before you ask, nope, wasn't us. Turns out local law enforcement's distaste for foreign alphabet agencies meddling with their affairs isn't as great as their hate boner for you guys. They've been all too eager to assist. Case closed, you behind Czech bars, everyone's happy.” 

Kev's eyes flit from the bag to Clint, to Natasha, and back. He sways, as if wanting to make a run for it, seems to reconsider when Natasha pulls her own gun and winks at him. “This one's loaded, trust me. Do try and escape. You'd make my day.” 

There's police sirens in the distance. No one will ask any questions if they hand over a dead suspect instead of a live one, as long as the fingerprints on the gun match. Clint's not sure what he wants to happen; whether he wants Kev to take that last step further and end up with a bullet between his eyes, or for him to give up, be taken, put on trial and locked away. The thought scares him more than anything else that happened today, and so does the fact that he doesn't feel any relief when Kev falls to his knees, arms hanging by his side, and surrenders. 

 

*** 

 

The flight back home is a quiet affair, loaded, the very thing they just did sitting on Clint's back like a living creature. He tries to tell himself it's justice, delivered through the back roads. He has no evidence Kev's killed someone and got away with it, somewhere down the line, but he doesn't doubt it could have happened. There must be a crime to fit the punishment, surely; people who torture their former friends tend to be capable of far worse when dealing with strangers. 

Natasha reaches out to take his hand midway across the Atlantic Ocean. Any other time, they'd both be asleep by this point, grabbing the opportunity to simmer down before being processed and debriefed. 

“How are you feeling?” she asks. 

He twines their fingers together and shoots her a tired, sad smile that hardly deserves the name. “Sore.” 

“Clint,” is all she says, one of a thousand different ways she has of using his name, all of them with a distinct meaning. There's no need for her to remind him that they're going to spend another couple of hours on this plane and she won't stop asking, won't let him get away with fronting and evading, he might as well get it over with right away. 

“Dunno, really.” He runs his free hand up and down his face, presses forefinger and thumb into the bone behind his eyes. “The only thing that's changed is that I'll be less likely to walk down the street and think I might've seen his face. It still happened. I still have to live with it. Capturing him didn't suddenly rewrite history.” 

“It was never going to,” she says, because the only end of the scale you've got any chance of righting is the one you filled in the first place, and if there's anyone who knows that, it's her. Black overwrites red, not the other way around. She never went after her Red Room handlers, despite Fury's offers, and until today he never understood why. He does now. 

 

***

 

Hill waits for them when they arrive on the flight pad of the helicarrier. She walks up to him as they exit the plane, and to everyone else, it's going to look like a reprimand. “I heard the mission didn't quite go as planned.” 

He meets her gaze and shrugs. “Entirely in the eye of the beholder, I'd say. We did catch a rat, and he'll be locked up tight.” 

“Glad to hear that,” she says. It's not the first time he's seen Maria Hill smile, but it never did look quite this shamelessly triumphant. “I'll expect your report on my desk first thing tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> The torture scene contains non-consensual touching to one's genitals. A following potential sexual assault is implicitly threatened, but not actually carried out.


End file.
